


a dream of you and me

by calciseptine, fishingboatblues



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Emotional Manipulation, First Kiss, M/M, Pre-Science Fair, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 11:51:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6752794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishingboatblues/pseuds/fishingboatblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s just a dream,” Ford murmurs. “Don’t you see that?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	a dream of you and me

**Author's Note:**

> This is Sarah and Steve's first attempt at writing together. We would say we're sorry, but we're really really not. :)
> 
> Song title taken from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d5gUsnJX2oA) song.

"Well then," Ford exclaims, transferring his small, genuine smile from the pamphlet in his hands to his brother. "I guess you'll just have to come visit me in California!"

Stan freezes in place, his eyes wide. He knew this was coming. He had been eavesdropping on the damn principal’s office for god’s sake, but to hear Ford confirm his suspicions, to hear Ford confirm his worst fears is _terrifying_. He thought—well he doesn’t know what he _thought_ —but he’d hoped Ford wouldn’t be so casual about it. Everything about this situation feels wrong, like a knife wedged in between his ribs. Ford can’t leave; if Ford leaves what does that mean for _him_? A pointless existence working at the saltwater taffy store, scraping the barnacles of some piece of shit building that’s just about as worthwhile as he is?

Stan’s eyes catch sight of the pamphlet and he feels something constrict inside his chest. "Sixer," Stan blurts, voice wavering in a way that betrays him just as much as his words surely will. "Don't, don't make it sound like, like we're breakin' up or something. You can't just leave, Ford! Don't I mean anythin' to ya?"

Ford pauses at the unexpected stab in his chest, his good mood dissolving into confusion. “It’s… It’s not that, Stanley.” He pinches the bridge of his nose with a free hand as he gathers his thoughts. “It’s—can’t you see? I—I’m not leaving you. I’m just…”

Ford looks over his brother’s broad shoulder and to the ocean. The water is dark with the setting sun and the waves break into white foam across the reed-studded sand. Once, he dreamed of sailing into the horizon; now, he dreams of a horizon in the opposite direction, and when he pictures it, there is no one fitted to the space beside him.

“It’s just a dream,” Ford murmurs, casting his gaze down to their scuffed shoes. “Don’t you see that?"

Stan's hand grips the rope of the swing set, knuckles whitening as his world breaks into a million pieces. His mind focuses in on Ford's words like a traffic cam on a train wreck. It's so easy for Ford, so easy for his brother to find new dreams, new hopes and goals, but Stanley? Stan has only ever had the one. For him, it was never just about sailing away on some rickety old boat. Stan's only dream has always been to be with Ford and.... it's so clear now, so clear to Stan that Ford had never wanted him in return.

"Oh, I see alright, think I'm seein' clearly for the first time," he sneers as he gets up from the wooden plank of his swing, a rush of movement that leaves the seat skittering through the air. "I get it, Ford, I get it." He pauses and balls his hands into fists, his eyes are an angry glow in the fading light; Stan has always used anger to cope with things that make him feel at his most powerless. "You don't want me around. You never have, have you?"

Denial surges up inside Ford but the words tangle in his dry throat. It isn’t that he doesn’t want Stan around—Stan has been there, always—and that’s the problem.

“It’s not like that,” Ford says. “I’m not leaving you, I just—“

“It’s sounds a whole fuckin’ lot like you’re leaving’ me!” Stan shouts.

Stan’s accusation hurts because Ford knows it’s more than partially true. He cannot deny that he wants to head to West Coast Tech on his own, that he wants to learn what he can accomplish. He also knows the reason Stan was never in these fantasies was because, if Stan came with him, Ford would not be able to devote himself fully to science and discovery.

“We need to learn to be individuals,” Ford croaks. They’re the same, useless words he and Stan have heard since elementary school, from the mouths of adults who did not—could not—understand. “It’s for the best.”

"Well, if being an individual means losin' you then I don't want it! I don't want any of that shit!" Stanley shouts loud enough for it to almost echo around them. The words linger in the air like cigarette smoke, just as thick and just as lethal. "What's the point of being a fuckin' individual if I lose the only person I give a damn about?" Stan continues, his feet making indents in the sand as he chooses to walk to Ford's side.

Stan buries his hands in Ford's shirt and yanks Ford close enough to look him directly in the eye. Ford likes to think he's got some kind of high ground but if that were the case he wouldn't be guiltily avoiding his gaze. "'Come visit me on the other side of country' eh?" he quotes mockingly, mimicking Ford as he's always been able to do. "What a load of shit! You think Ma and Pops will let me? They don't even let us see Shermie and he's only a two hour drive away!"

Ford’s hands tighten around the rough old rope, still unable to look Stan in the eye. “That’s different,” he murmurs. “Ma and Pops… They think Shermie’s a bad influence.”

“Yeah,” Stan scoffs. “And what about me? You think I’m not a bad influence? Ya think they'll let me come and see you?"

Ford sighs. Stanley doesn't understand Ford's struggles: the need to prove himself, the need to better himself, the need to prove everyone who has ever taunted him wrong. Ford cannot live and die in this small coastal town; if he wants to grow into the person he wants to be—the person he was meant to be—he cannot stay. Glass Shard Beach has never accepted him and it never will. At least at West Coast Tech Ford has the chance to better his life.

"I can come visit you over the holidays," Ford says, carefully dodging the question he has no good answer for. "Or you can always save up and buy an airplane ticket. It isn't an unfeasible solution, Stanley."

His words hang in the air, heavy and naïve in nature. He’s lying to himself, trying to fake some sense of optimism, but Stan has always been able to see through any lies thrown his way.

“Solution.” Stan laughs, a single derisive exhale. “Yeah.”

They sit in silence as the weight of the future presses down. Neither of them wants to accept the fate that looms before them, but they are both too selfish and too stubborn to reach a compromise.

“We’ll see each other,” Ford says quietly. The words sound hollow to his own ears. “We’ll—we can find a way to make it work.”

“Stop lyin’, Sixer,” Stan says, his voice oddly even in his resignation. “You’re not—that’s what I’m good for, remember?”

Ford stills at that. He hadn't been lying, he wouldn't, not about something as serious as this. He feels insulted that Stanley would even suggest such a thing. "You're not listening to me, Stanley. I am _trying_ to find a work around here! Yet you keep, keep finding a way to dance around the issue. You don't think we can make it work. You want me stay here in this stupid town and _stagnant_ because it's easier for _you_!"

Stan laughs, loud, long and bitter at Ford's words. His voice is cracked and the definition of distraught. "You know what? Talkin' about this was a mistake."

Yet before Ford can say anything—before he can protest—before he can ask what Stan means—Stan steps into the small space between Ford’s thighs, curls a fist into Ford’s thick hair, and presses his mouth against Ford’s.

It is not a good kiss. Ford is not an expert; he has never kissed anyone in seriousness, but he is fairly certain that his lips shouldn’t throb like a new bruise and his teeth shouldn’t cut into the sensitive flesh inside his mouth. He is also knows that a kiss should last longer than an unsure second before it splinters apart.

“Easy for me?” Stan growls into the damp air between them. “Stay, or leave—none of it will be _easy_ for me, Sixer.”

Stan’s fist tightens in Ford’s hair and Ford gasps at the hurt. He tips his head back to alleviate the worst of the sting and Stan, unable to resist the submissive sight of his brother and his exposed throat, descends again. This kiss is no less rough than the first, no less unrefined, but…

But it isn’t a surprise.

Ford melts into the second kiss. He accepts Stan’s biting teeth and the demanding slide of his tongue. His hands rise to cling to Stan’s broad shoulders and his head spins. He tries to breath through his nose but cannot draw in enough oxygen to calm the rapid, terrible beat of his heart. When Stan pulls away, he sucks in the sea air; it leaves a salty taste on the tip of his tongue that cannot compare to the sweetness of his brother’s mouth.

This is when Ford sees the dilation of Stan's pupils and the telltale redness of a man trying not to cry. It fills him with helplessness; Ford hates the expression on Stan's face and cannot bear for this to be one of their last moments alone together before he leaves—and he knows, with certainty, that he will leave—so he buries his hands in Stan's short hair and pulls him back for more.

This time Ford takes a more dominant stance. Never one to be outdone by his brother, Ford nibbles at Stan's bottom lip. He does so until Stan opens his mouth in a low groan that has Ford's nerves tingling with desire, and lustful expectation for something he only intellectually knows as a possibility.

His fingers thread through Stan's hair, all six of them getting caught and trapped by Stanley's hair; it's almost symbolic in a way, but he uses it to his advantage. He grips Stanley by the hair and draws him impossibly closer and does his best to spin them until Stan has his back against the metal frame of the swing set. The movement only half works as it takes all of Ford's strength, and enough of Stanley's cooperation, to move Stanley anywhere.

“Move,” Ford snarls in frustration. “Stanley—“

“Oh, so now you want me to go somewhere,” Stan spits. “Make up yer fuckin’ mind, Stanford—“

“Shut—“ Ford kisses the ugly curl of Stan’s chapped mouth. “Your—“ Ford bites Stan’s lips. “Fucking—“ His teeth rake along the line of Stan’s stubbled jaw. “ _Mouth_.”

Stanley growls and grabs at Ford. His hands are a sweaty, rough slide on Ford’s forearms and he knows Stan’s grip is sure to leave questionable bruises. His voice is lower than usual and it strikes Ford suddenly that this is how Stanley sounds when he is aroused. "I do that and you'll have a hard time gettin' inside it, won't ya?"

The mental image of Stan on his knees, his mouth wide and red as Ford feeds his cock into his mouth, bursts inside Ford’s brain. It is too vivid—too bright—and suddenly too possible that the crackle of lust Ford feels pales in comparison to the cold, clean whip crack of realization.

“You’re distracting me,” Ford murmurs as his grip in Stan’s hair goes slack, as he takes a fumbling step backwards. “You—you kissed me to—“

“You weren’t listenin’!” Stan interrupts, his words slicing through the air; it’s as close to confirmation as Ford needs. “You never just listen to me—“

“You’re trying to manipulate me!” Ford shrills back. Stan’s eyes are wide with shock; somehow, it makes it easy for Ford to continue. “You kissed me—not because you wanted to, but because you knew—you knew it’s what I wanted!”

Stan’s slumped shoulders and downcast gaze say much about Stan’s guilt.

“Did you even want to kiss me?” Ford asks. “Do you even—what is this to you, Stanley? Do you want me to stay because I’m your brother? Do you want me to stay because you’re afraid of growing up? Or…” Ford’s vision blurs. He blinks hard, refusing to wipe away the damp he feels gathering in the corner of his eyes. “Do you even love me?”

Stan's eyes widen further at the question. "H-how can you even ask me that, Sixer? God, I thought by now you'd fuckin' get it, it's always been so obvious, Ford. Of course I love you! You think I'd just kiss anyone? 'specially if they're related to me? I'm not some sicko who gets off on just anyone with a little Pines blood in their veins, it's you, Ford, just you. It's always been you, Sixer."

“Then why didn’t you kiss me before?” Ford asks. He can hear the honesty in Stan’s voice and see the sincerity in his eyes, but the timing of the kiss is impossible to ignore. “Why now? Why—why like this?”

Stan sighs heavily and runs both of his hands through his slicked back hair, mussing the strands further. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, unsure, and looks at the swing set—the ocean—the rising moon—everywhere but Ford. He flinches when his eyes scrape over the sails of the Stan o'War; he cannot mask the way his whole being seems to deflate at the sight of it. It’s like looking upon a dream upon waking; he knows it can never be. 

“Tell me!” Ford half shouts, half begs. “Stanley, just—“

Stan feels like a hurricane of barely contained emotion. He feels like he's trapped in a snow globe, like someone shook his whole world upside and now he's just waiting for everything to settle but it won't. Not when Ford is demanding answers that will only hurt them both.

"I wanted ya, god, do ever I want you," Stan begins, his voice full of bitter longing. All the words he wants to say he knows are the wrong words, are the words that will finally show Ford once and for all that Stanley really isn't worth a damn, that the best choice Ford can make is to leave. He pushes on regardless. "But I wanted you to stay too; it's not like you gave me any options. You were just gonna leave like I don't mean anything to ya. I had to do somethin', so why not do what I've always wanted, huh? Doesn't matter that I didn't want—"

Stan cuts himself off and takes a calming breath. His tongue feels fat and stupid inside his mouth, unable to convey what he truly wants.

"It doesn't matter that I didn't want to… not right this second. It doesn't _matter_ , okay? I want you, I do, I _really_ do. Just don't leave, Sixer, please. Anything you want, it's yours. Anything you need me to do? I'll do it! Anything you want me to be? I'll be whatever you want, Ford—I can do it!" Stan raises his voice and gives a wild gesture around. "There are colleges right around the corner, Sixer! You don't need some, some stuffy college, do ya? Don't you want me? Don't ya at least _need_ me a little? You don't gotta leave, you're not like me; with your smarts you could make it anywhere, we both know that, but me? I'm not worth nothin'. I can't do anythin' right, don't ya see? Being by your side is the only thing I ever been proud about."

Stan thinks his confession is enough. He certainly feels as though it is enough; he feels empty and tired, as though every word took a small piece of his tumultuous emotions with it. He expects to see understanding when he looks up meets Ford’s eyes, but there is no empathy in his brother’s blue irises, only sorrow.

“Stanley,” Ford breathes, his own voice cracking.

“No,” Stan croaks, arms stretching out in a desperate plea. “No, Sixer, don’t—“

Ford shakes his head almost violently and takes another step back in the shifting sand, away from Stan’s upturned and open palms. “I can’t,” he says. “Stanley—we can’t. Don’t you see? You—you need me too much and I—“

"—don't need me enough. That's what you were gonna say, right?"

The look on both their faces is nothing short of heartbreak. Stanley's eyes are dark and knowing, like a storm out at sea; Ford's eyes are surprised but Stan sees enough truth in them to know that he, for once in his life, has been right about something. He wishes he were wrong about this—oh god, does he ever wish he were wrong—but he isn't, and this uncomfortable and nauseous truth settles between them like tension and cold silence given physical form.

"You're not, you're not even gonna deny it are you? You're not even going to try?"

Ford's mouth, previously agape in shock, snaps shut. His eyes shutter closed and his whole expression goes damnably closed. Ford knows what would happen if he tried to explain himself further—how he and Stan would fight until they were both exhausted—and realizes that this conclusion is the best. The cleanest. It hurts, so much that he feels as though he cannot breath properly. When his eyes open again all Stan sees in them is steely resolve. 

"You told me not to lie, didn't you?" asks Ford.

“Yeah,” Stan answers. “I guess I did.”

The silence engulfs them as they look at each other one last time. There is nothing Stan can say to make Ford stay and there is nothing Ford can do to make Stan understand; they both believe that their words and their actions are justified. So they just stare at one another—sadly and quietly—until this too becomes impossible and unbearable.

Stan does not reach out to stop Ford when Ford turns and leaves. He does not run to catch up with him and he does not scream at him to stay. He wants to, though. He wants to get up and fold Ford into his arms; wants to kiss Ford so hard he sees stars; wants to make it impossible for Ford to imagine a life without him.

But Stan doesn’t. Instead, he sits on the swing set for a minute—ten minutes—maybe an hour—before his stomach rumbles. He sighs. He knows there is a five dollar bill gathering dust in his wallet; it will get him a bag or two of toffee peanuts from the vending machine near his high school, and that’s enough to get him to his feet and shove his hands angrily into his pockets.

Stan does not know—he cannot know—of the bleak future that awaits him. All Stan knows now is his hunger, and how Ford sounded when he said good-bye.


End file.
